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September 28, 2005

Some places you visit don't even register as a fleeting blip in your memory. Some, impress a long-term stamp on your visual cortex. Others burn into your psyche like glowing coals: distilled into dreams, rehatched and rehashed and reminisced into myth and legend.

When I was a wee babbling bairn, toddling around the heather strewn highlands of Scotland, we moved around from place to place with alarming regularity: Edinburgh, Crail, St Andrews, Aberdeen, Inverness, Dingwall... And one place in particular left an undying memorial ember that has to glowed ever stronger for the last 36 years.

Farr Mains. A lovely little estate near the oft-mapless hamlet of Farr a few miles southwest of inverness. Our family was lucky to be able to rent this place for a year from the Murray's, a military family often stationed in the far pavillions of the ever-dwindling empire.

A large, solid, bright and airy home, its sunny face looking south over glorious grazing land and the low rolling hills at the the foot of the highlands. Bounded by hedgerows and a cherry tree, the grassy back garden hosts a berry patch (rasp, black, straw and goose) some incredible rosebushes and an old barn.

A little brook winds along the back boundary where many an afternoon was spent playing and picnicking.

I arrived one warm, brilliant morning to find the Murray's still in residence and only too happy to let me look around my childhood home. I wandered around the house as memories came flooding back. I strolled thrugh the meadow and dangled my feet in the chilly mountain stream. Nothing had changed. It was all as I remembered. I knew instinctivley where to find everything: the crooked tree, the fairy garden, the haunted elm thicket and the trolls' bridge.

I also visited the little loch nearby where we used to paddle out and fish for trout. It's glassy, tranquil surface reflecting the vivid colours of the Scottish Summer.

Cycling down the backroads I even stumbled on a set of artist's cottages designed by no less than Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

Back at the house the Murrays had a wonderful salad prepared from their own vegetable garden with wild mushrooms form the adjacent forest. Bidding them farewell, I trundled off to see the surrounding countryside buzzing as long-latent memories smacked me in the face at every turn.

In many ways, this little side-trip was a driving force behind my entire journey. I had envisioned this homecoming many times over those 36 years. And with the stunning sunshine and the beaming welcome from the Murrays transformed it into a truly magical moment.

September 11, 2005

There are many things that make Ireland unique. There're the awe-inspiring landscapes, the mythical prehistoric past, those thousand shades of green... But what struck me most was the people.

Or the fact that they didn't strike me. Not physically anyway. Despite being the originators of the donnybrook, the shillelagh, hurling and gaelic football, you could not find a more friendly and loquacious race on the planet.

And nowhere is this charming characteristic better exemplified than in 'the craic'.

The craic (pronounced 'crack'), eludes definition in much the same way, I'm told, the word 'love' does. It cannot be explained. It can only be experienced.

The Craic in County Galway

More formally, the craic covers the general merriment that effervesces into every corner of any Irish pub in the form of music, singing, storytelling and poetry. Less formally, it also encompasses the cheer, goodwill and enthusiasm oozing out of every pore of the patrons -- be they performer or audience or even the oblivious rabble out the back.

Newcomers are welcomed and drawn into often endless conversations. Jokes and ales, smokes and tales are exchanged in generous quantities. The warmth and the mirth are inebriatingly infectious. Anyone is welcome to pull out a penny whistle, mandolin, dulcimer, zither or any other noise making device and join in. If you know a good joke, tall tale or bawdy poem, then the crowd pauses to lend an ear.

Emboldened by Guinness and egged on by the locals even I had a crack in the craic with a rough-edged rendition of "Mulga Bill's Bicycle", and for an encore: "The Grand Farting Contest"... Needless to say, Banjo was better received than Mrs McLeod.

And when closing time draws nigh, the tempo reaches its frenzied zenith. More often than not, the blinds are drawn and the doors discreetly closed for the 'lock in' -- allowing the revelry to continue way beyond its legal limits. Until at last, the last glassy eyed patrons are swept up with the sawdust and spilt stout and sent staggering on their merry way and into the night. And any untold stories can be resumed where left off the next day.

The west coast of Ireland boasts some of the most dramatic and beautiful landscapes on the planet. There's the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula, the Cliffs of Moher, the Burren, the Aran Islands, the Twelve Bens and the bay of Clifden to rattle off but a few.

I wanted to do more than just observe their respective majesties from the filter of a tour bus window like the thousands of other gawkers cramming the tiny single lane 'roads'.I also wanted to test my personal fitness levels in anticipation of more arduous treks ahead (The Scottish Highlands, The American Rockies, The Las Vegas Strip).And finally and foremost, I wanted to put to the proof that oft-claimed adage that there's the nutritional equivalent of "a pork chop in every pint" of Guinness.

I couldn't have picked a better season. When the sun came out it was gloriously warm, when the rain drizzled down, it was comfortably cooling. The wildflowers were everywhere in bloom, in an orgy of crimsons, violets, yellows, lilacs and oranges. The brambles were bursting with ripe, juicy blackberries. The summer air was swirling with butterflies and bumblebees. Comely local milkmaids were frolicking gaily across the meadows. And randy local farmhands stumbling comically behind, trousers around their ankles.

And, suitably fortifying myself each evening with the dietary equivalent of fourteen pork chops, I would set off on foot or pedal, cursing up the hills and gleefully whistling down them.

The Aran Islands

Each excursion was an utter joy, a multi-sensory feast -- despite the setbacks which included sporadic but howling squalls; flat tires miles from the nearest pump; precipitous climbs; moronic and myopic motorists among the sundry hordes of holidaymakers; swarms of wasps and bumble bees; oddly formed bicycle seats combined with a catlogue of bruising bumps, potholes and crumbling scree and their attendant saddles sores, muscles strains and chafing rashes; archaic and inaccurate cartography; horrendous hangovers, hypothermia, hyperthermia and (thanks to my liquid diet) a very nasty dose of diarrhea. Not to mention the all-too-frequent mid-ramble attacks of dehydration for which the only solution was a restorative... uh... pork chop.

Clifden

Every corner revealed yet another breathtaking view and every crest opened onto a eyepopping vista. I'll spare any verbal description of the scenery and give you a visual sampler instead.

August 16, 2005

Located in a narrow delta-shaped inlet just south of a large wooded area in Ireland's County Donegal is the warm and welcoming town of Muff.

Not featured in many travel guides, Muff might be hard to locate at first. I know -- I took a couple of wrong turns and went up a couple of blind alleys before finding my way in myself. The locals assure me that once you're familiar with the geography, you'll be able to slip in and out of Muff with ease.

Muff's climate is especially inviting: warm and moist for most of the year -- making it a haven for watersports, especially diving. So bring your snorkel!

And when you finally come up for air and are feeling like a nibble, Muff also boasts excellent seafood from its bountiful estuarine location. Its famed clams are a real treat, (although beware of the crabs as they are likely to be imported rather than sourced locally). And if it's wild game you're seeking, try the hare pie. Even fast-foodies won't be disappointed with big juicy burgers on the menu.

So, when you're next in Ireland -- head down to Muff. You're sure to find yourself agreeing with the locals when they say, "once in Muff is never enough".

August 01, 2005

By the time I hit Florence, I reckon I'd just about seen the greatest hits collection from the brush tips of the Renaissance masters, only to discover the richest treasure trove yet in the Uffizi Gallery

Now, I fancy myself as a bit of a Renaissance Man -- albeit only because I like wearing tights, playing the lute and discussing the polemics of bad Dan Brown novels -- so I feel somewhat in a position of authority to dole out my deeply considered opinions on the finer points of post-dark ages art and culture. Firstly an overview, painted in broad brushstrokes, if you will, and secondly a wrap up of all the big hitters in the painting and sculpture caper.

Renaissance Art:Virgins : what is it with painters and virgins? I'm up to here with 'em, let me tell you. I reckon I've seen enough Madonnas to fill a convent! And all she does is sit there smiling serenely, bouncing the little holy bubsy on her knee. I've had a quick browse through the Good Book, and for mine there are dozens more interesting shielas in there to cover the canvasses. For starters, where are all the Jezebels, Bathshebas and Delilahs? Give me a slyly seductive Queen of Sheba on a leopard skin with a little gossamer off-the-shoulder raiment any day.

Holy Infants : Plump, ugly and remarkably well-behaved. I don't know how those medieval painters got him to stay still during the sitting. Not a tantrum, dirty nappy or spat dummy in sight. Probably drugged the poor little mite.

Dead Jesi (I believe this is the correct plural) : Jeepers, this pre-occupation with humiliation, flagellation and crucifixion is a bit over the top. For a real rip-snorter, check out Grunewald's classic from the Northern Renaissance.The Crucifixion

Saint Sebastian : The old gaydar goes into meltdown whenever you get within fifteen foot of one of these things. Now, I know most of your Florentine flourishers were shirt-lifters, but they really went to town on this guy. The all-time gay icon. Enough to beat the trousers of your Davids, Adones or Appollos.

The Big Hitters :(in strictly Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle order)

Leonardo : What can i say that hasn't been said? A true genius in every field. I even hear he could sing and play the piano as well. A bit like having Wally Lewis, Rod Laver and Don Bradman all rolled into one.Mona and friends. The Louvre, Paris

Michelangelo : Another true genius. Never did anything by halves. Great, powerful, muscular works. Would have been the Paul Sironen of the marble-chipping league in his day. One small note (and I know I'm splitting hairs here), but for all the hours he spent lovingly carving every little wrinkle in the world's most famous foreskin, did anyone ever bother to tell him that David was Jewish?David

Donatello : Beautiful, lyrical and sensuous. Certainly wore his homoerotic heart on his puffy, silken sleeve. I reckon if you raided his studio, it'd be choc-a-bloc full of teenage rent boys swanning around semi-naked in thigh-high suede boots and plumed hats.David

Raphael : I'm going out on a limb here and say this guy is rubbish. Grossly overrated. Certainly doesn't belong in the same pantheon of the guys above. Pitiful colour coordination, lifeless composition and a disturbingly feathery touch with the brush.Madonna dell Granduca

So if Raphael's out, who's in?A couple of considerations:

Filippo Lippi : Largely forgotten and totally underrated. Arrived a bit early on the scene, but a true craftsman. Exqusite composition and flawless rendering skills. A deft hand with the old paintbrush. his rendering of the human face and form is without peer.Madonna and Child with Stories of the Life of St. Anne

Botticelli : You just gotta love that blond chick that keeps popping up in all his paintings. Another one who showed up a bit early in the piece, but certainly pulled the art of painting kicking and screaming out of the dark ages.

Caravaggio: The shadowman of the late Renaissance. Intense, powerful and moody... and I'm not just talking about his oils. Like a good donnybrook, as well as being aprofligate wine soak and a real pants man. Until his untimely end, seemed to keep just one step ahead of the law.

Pieter Brueghel (the Elder) : Ok, a bit of a long shot. A late-comer and a bit north of the border, but I could stare at his genre paintings for hours. Lively, colourful and bursting at the seams with humour and pathos.The Wedding Feast

So the ball's in your court now -- who else deserves a guernsey in the Renaissance All-Star team?

July 25, 2005

I was paying a long-overdue visit to the eternal city and had taken in most of the sites when I realised that the Vatican was still on my list of "things to see".

Never was a big fan of old JP2, the last bloke in charge there, and was pleased to see that this time round my old mate Joe "Ratzo" Ratzinger had been given the nod for the top spot. Now me and Ratzo go way back. He'd be the first to tell you how we both signed up for the Traunstein chapter of the Hitler Youth back in '41. Heck, I even had to lend him my scarf toggle that one time before the big parade. Lousy goosestepper, too, try as he might. Don't know how he became an anti-aircraft gunner though, couldn't hit the side of a synagogue at ten paces.

Now ol' Ratzo was a bit of a lad in his day, but from all accounts has turned into a bit of a geezer. Dresses to the right, if you get my drift. And a bit anti- pretty much anything. You can see that I wwould be keen to see what had become of my erstwhile chum and sparring partner since he taken the oath.

So it was that I ventured out on a sunny Monday afternoon for a little informal chat. I figured that would be the pefect time, he'd have just wrapped up for the week (Sunday is always a big day for men of the cloth) and wouldn't need to start hammering up his next sermon and nut out an order of service until at least Wednesday... so he'd be sure to have a few minutes for an old comrade-at-arms.

So I rock up the the Vatican and ask, "Where's old Ratzo?", little realising they call him Benedict XVI these days. This stony faced padre tells me I'd have to make an appointment with the press office. After I'd come all this way. Sheesh! Not just that, but I'd need to show some press credentials.

Luckily I still carry my Concordia College School Newspaper Reporters Club card. And so it was, the next day, I front up at the Vatican Press office and request a few words with his Holier-than-thou-ness. "The Pope rarely, if ever talks to the press," a rattled press officer tells me.

"How can you tell?" says I, "He's only been in the job a couple of weeks -- hardly time to set any noticeable trends." Disdainfully returning my press card, she informs me that the Pope gives a public audience every Wednesday morning and I'd be welcome to join the faithful.

Imagine my surprise when I show up at 10 in the morning, expecting maybe a couple of people in front of me at the reception desk, to see a heaving throng of 30,000 people, all fumbling with their rosaries and staring straight ahead. Crikey, I can't even see where the bloody queue starts and finishes. Next thing you know, out pops Ratzo's head from a second story window. Looks like he's not even gonna even take a lousy confessional. He mutters something in Latin, crosses himself and then starts backing away from the window. And with a swirl of his cape, he's off. Like a Bride's nightie.

I don't quite know what happened next. But he slunk back inside. Next thing you know the crowd has parted like the Red Sea and a swarm of Swiss guards come storming towards me. Now, someone should have a word with these guys about military guile in general, and camouflage in particular. Unless you wanted to infiltrate a court jester's convention, there's no way you could blend into the background in these fancy togs.

I'll have to talk my way out of this one. "Hey, it's cool. I used to be a guard myself: Concordia College basketball team, 1983. I know all about silly uniforms too."

Not known for their sense of humour, the guards surround me, lances pointing at all the bits that could use them least. Looks like I'm gonna be the swiss cheese at their little ecuemenical fondue party. This is it: only one ball to go before stumps, so I better chance my arm.

"Look! Behind you!" I below and point frantically in a vaguely papal direction.

Not only does the entire Swiss garrison turn as one, but so does the the rest of that 30,000-strong congregation. And before you could rattle off an Ave Maria, I'm out of there like the devil at daybreak.

Well, times change and so, I guess, do earnest young goosesteppers. Still, I managed to raid the offering plate as I rounded the corner out of the Piazza, so the day wasn't a total fizzer. Strangely enough, all I picked up were a couple of raincoat buttons and a parking token.